The Kentons eBook

“DearmotherKenton,—­I
am sitting by Richard, writing at his request,
about what he has done. He received a letter from
New York telling him of the Bittridges’ performances
there, and how that wretch had insulted and abused
you all. He bought a cowhide; meaning to go
over to Ballardsville, and use it on him there, but
B. came over on the Accommodation this morning,
and Richard met him at the station. He did
not attempt to resist, for Richard took him quite
by surprise. Now, Mother Kenton, you know that
Richard doesn’t approve of violence, and
the dear, sweet soul is perfectly broken-down by
what he had to do. But he had to do it, and he
wishes you to know at, once that he did it.
He dreads the effect upon Ellen, and we must leave
it to your judgment about telling her. Of
course, sooner or later she must find it out.
You need not be alarmed about Richard. He
is just nauseated a little, and he will be all
right as soon as his stomach is settled. He thinks
you ought to have this letter before you sail,
and with affectionate good-byes to all, in which
Dick joins,
“Your
loving daughter,
“Mary Kenton.”

“There! Will that do?”

“Yes, that is everything that can be said,”
answered Richard, and Mary kissed him gratefully before
sealing her letter.

“I will put a special delivery on it,”
she said, and her precaution availed to have the letter
delivered to Mrs. Kenton the evening the family left
the hotel, when it was too late to make any change
in their plans, but in time to give her a bad night
on the steamer, in her doubt whether she ought to
let the family go, with this trouble behind them.

But she would have had a bad night on the steamer
in any case, with the heat, and noise, and smell of
the docks; and the steamer sailed with her at six
o’clock the next morning with the doubt still
open in her mind. The judge had not been of the
least use to her in helping solve it, and she had
not been able to bring herself to attack Lottie for
writing to Richard. She knew it was Lottie who
had made the mischief, but she could not be sure that
it was mischief till she knew its effect upon Ellen.
The girl had been carried in the arms of one of the
stewards from the carriage to her berth in Lottie’s
room, and there she had lain through the night, speechless
and sleepless.

IX.

Ellen did not move or manifest any consciousness when
the steamer left her dock and moved out into the stream,
or take any note of the tumult that always attends
a great liner’s departure. At breakfast-time
her mother came to her from one of the brief absences
she made, in the hope that at each turn she should
find her in a different mood, and asked if she would
not have something to eat.

“I’m not hungry,” she answered.
“When will it sail?”

“Why, Ellen! We sailed two hours ago, and
the pilot has just left us.”